Aeval's Kiss
by Yxonomei
Summary: A bit of failed inter-dimensional black marketing leads to something being brought to Hogwarts that should not be let loose among hormonal teenagers—or their professors. (Harry-centric SLASH, ADULT content with humor)


Summary: A bit of failed inter-dimensional black marketing leads to something being brought to Hogwarts that should not be let loose among hormonal teenagers—and their professors. (Slash, Harry-centric pairings, including, not necessarily in this order, DM/HP, SS/HP, RL/HP and others)

Disclaimer: I don't own the rights to the Harry Potter Series, which solely belong to J.K. Rowling, et al, but that hasn't stopped me from writing about them.

**Warning: This story contains the themes of sex, shota/chanslash, and male/male relationships, a.k.a. slash/yaoi. If any of these may offend you, then stop reading. If, however, you do read this, in spite of my warnings, and find it offensive, then I have to say it is your own fault. Some scenes are of an erotic nature, but I have attempted to write it as tastefully as my ability allows.**

**Note: I will not accept any flames, however, comments and criticisms are welcome. I am under the assumption that anyone reading this has a clear understanding of the difference between flames and criticisms so I don't have to explain it. Here are some reason why I don't accept flames: **1) **they generally include an attack on the author's character without regard to previous or future works that may or may not be in the same vein, ****2) not only are they childish, but they make the writer of them sound immature and not old enough to read the material contained herein, ****3) flames help neither the author nor the flamer to improve the work and, therefore, are not constructive, ****4) if something is so offensive as to elicit the impulse to flame then it is better forgotten and not dwelled upon, ****5) you waste time writing it and I waste time reading and then deleting it, **6)** it won't do you any good to point out my lack of scruples, morals, intelligence, sanity, etc., because not only don't I care, but I won't listen.**

Thank you for your kind regards and any reviews (not flames) that you will allocate to me.

Aeval's Kiss

_"There are things that should not exist in this world; that would not if it wasn't for a rather prolific black market between dimensions. Among the many forbidden items smuggled onto Earth through various dimensional rips and unregistered portals is a concoction so potent it enslaves with the barest of touches. It is has come to be known by many names, but it is more commonly referred to as Aeval's Kiss; so named after the fairy of love and sexuality who often held court at the strike of midnight to hear charges leveled against men who failed to satisfy their partners. _

_"In simple terms, Aeval's Kiss is a true aphrodisiac. However, as with any such substance, it is a double-edged blade. It wounds both the user and the recipient. It has often been used as a form of torture for adultery throughout the dimensions. Once applied, the desire to be touched by another's flesh, to be kissed, and—to put it crudely—fucked can drive a person insane. _

_"There is no known cure. The victims are forced by this magically induced lust to have intercourse until Aeval's Kiss eventually wears off. If too much of this aphrodisiac is used, those under its thrall will continue in their carnal activities until they die of exhaustion, starvation or dehydration, whichever of the three occurs first. _

_"So it is not surprising to find that Aeval's Kiss has been outlawed throughout the dimensions. But laws have never stopped anyone when there is a large monetary gain at stake. After all, money makes the world go round."_

*          *          *

A gnomish figure slips through a strange slit filled with static reminiscent of a bad TV station. There is a sound of delicate glass vials clinking together and the slick slide of well polished leather. The figure mutters angrily and glares about the warren of alleyways snaking off into dank shadows. From the matte blackness of its clothing it withdraws a gently glowing disk. The sallow light briefly illuminates a face that is so much crumpled cloth, or rather sagging pouches of jaundiced, leathery flesh and wrinkles so deep that the unwary could lose a hand. 

"She's late," it mutters and the glowing disk vanishes. 

NilRoy, an enterprising Nuent from the Triple League dimension, is not used to waiting for his clients; they usually know better. His time is not dependent upon anyone's whim aside from his own. He glances back at the dimensional rip that is slowly mending. His client has approximately seven minutes to arrive, six if NilRoy wants a larger safety margin. If the client doesn't show, he'll be gone faster than the virginity of a Melgorn IV whore. 

Five minutes tick by and NilRoy is preparing to leave this muddy little planet known by its inhabitants as Earth, when the wheezing exhalations of one unused to any form of strenuous exercising fill the night. 

"Sir, I'm so sorry I'm late. There was a…problem." A figure tall as NilRoy is short comes to a panting halt before the bemused Nuent. Swathes of sparkling black material veil the client from sight.

"Were you followed?" His voice is calm and smooth like warm honey, but there are a glass shards lurking just below. The newcomer hangs her head. "You were?"

"That was the problem I mentioned." A Nuent curse—which, loosely translated, would amount to the client's gender, parentage and sanity being in question and perhaps linked to several amoebic life forms found in the TL dimension—punctures the air. 

"So why did you even bother showing yourself?"

"I…"

"Never mind, never mind. How long ago did you notice that you were being tailed?" The client cocks her head upon the long rod of her neck and hums thoughtfully.

"Ten minutes." The Nuent does a quick calculation in his truncated head. Earth minutes converted into TL dimension time standard meant…

"You—" Another untranslatable curse follows. The Nuent makes an ungainly hop towards the slowly closing rip. 

"I brought the payment, though," the client cries. NilRoy pauses as greed pops its pestilential head up in sudden awareness. 

"Really?" Earth currency has no value in other dimensions. In fact, Earth has very little of value at all, except one thing: Twinkies. It is a little known fact on Earth that the cholesterol packed filling of a single Twinkie has enough raw energy to power an inter-dimensional cruise liner for eighteen voyages. Unfortunately, due to the backward nature of this small planet, all inter-dimensional trading between it and other dimensions has been banned. For this reason, black market Twinkie trading on Earth is a grotesquely enriching enterprise, if one can get by the Policers. 

"Really," the client assures NilRoy. There is the crinkling rustle of cheap Earth plastic and a milky, translucent bag of the stuff is withdrawn from among the folds of the client's covering. Several boxes weigh it down.

The Nuent's hoary hands twitch acquisitively. There are enough Twinkies in that bag to ensure that he'll have no need to worry about money for the rest of his natural life. Yet the portal is closing and his client was followed…

Small, desperate noises leak from the vicinity of his mouth. He really, really wants that bag and its contents. He has a split second to decide. The light scuff of the approaching inter-dimensional law enforcers distracts him. 

"Well?" What to do? What to do?

"Okay, okay," he hisses and removes a silver vial hidden beneath the rough cloth of his cloak.  He presses the vial into the client's hand and snatches up the plastic bag and its glorious contents filled with enough saturated fat to kill off a small village of people. He ducks through the rip just in time, though it does close upon a bit of his cloak. The bit of black cloth flutters to the ground by the client's feet. 

"Stop! This is the inter-dimensional law enforcement squad!" The client shrieks and rushes off down one of the many alleyways. The Policers, all dressed in various shades of puce, pursue with accompanying shouts of 'stop' and 'give yourself up for your own good. We don't want to hurt you, but we have the legal right to.'

Twisting down dark alleyways and dimly lit main streets, the client desperately attempts to give her pursuers the slip. Unfortunately, she is not one for physical exertions and is soon reduced to limping along. Of course, due to certain illogical inter-dimensional laws, the Policers are unable to apprehend her until she gives up. They follow the black-swathed figure at a sedate pace and continue to run through their mantras of 'stop,' etc. 

Suddenly, most like due to fate's boredom with the whole affair, a group of school children choose to turn onto the same street as the client. The Policers, due to yet another of those infernal inter-dimensional laws, fling themselves into any available hiding place in order to not be seen by the natives. The client, however, is not inclined in the least to hide her rather elongated appearance. 

The school children stop and stare. They look like the proverbial deer trapped in the headlights. The client observes them briefly and then strides purposefully between them despite the fact that there is plenty of room to pass to either side of the gaggle. The vial vanishes from her hand. She continues on, followed closely by figures dressed in puce. 

The children cry out demands for the respect of social etiquette, all of which are dutifully ignored by the strangers, both seen and unseen. Finding themselves ignored, the baffled and indignant children continue their way home. 

Turning down another alleyway, the client gives up. The puce Policers arrest her, or rather, they try. There is no longer any evidence of the transaction between her and NilRoy. Without evidence they have to let her go with a warning. 

*          *          *

_"It is interesting to note that, while Aeval's Kiss produces incurable lust for the entirety of the administered dose's duration, it only affects people of similar sexual orientations. Of course, in some dimensions that is not an issue as there are no discernable genders."_

*          *          *

"That…person was incredibly rude! There was plenty of room to go around!" Hermione Granger declares indignantly.

"They—"

"He or she," she corrects Ron Weasely automatically. 

"Fine. _He or she_ did that on purpose. Didn't _he or she_, Harry?"

"Maybe, I don't know," Harry Potter offers with a shrug. "Whoever it was, they"—A pointed look from the bushy-haired girl leads to automatic grammatical correction—"He or she was in a hurry."

"Too much of one to bother going around," Ron mutters. 

"The person clearly saw us, as well. There was no excuse." Again the green-eyed boy shrugs. He has the most disconcerting sense that the rude person isn't exactly a person. Of course that's just plain silly, or so he tells himself with a wry shake of his head. 

"Did the person seem…odd to any of you?"

"Yeah, rude as hell!"

"Ron! Watch your language."

"Not in that way. You know, not quite right?" Two pairs of confused eyes meet his. 

"Harry…" Hermione sighs patiently. By now she is used to her friend's odd ideas. Sometimes they even prove to be true. However, right now it is late and no time to be postulating about the 'rightness' of rude strangers. 

"Never mind."

Ron opens his mouth to say something, but finds the girl's hand in the way. Harry smiles and the three continue back to Hogwarts, renowned institution for the magically inclined. The green-eyed boy never notices a slight and wholly new protuberance in the pocket of his robes. 

*          *          *

_"On rare occasions the afflicted, those under the influence of Aeval's Kiss, will become a carrier of the substance, whether the normal duration expires or not. In this circumstance the drug can be classified as a tactile virus, spread through touch. In truth there have only been two entities affected in such a way, and both died, insane."_

*          *          *

While looking for a spare quill to replace the one that has just decided to give up the ghost, Harry Potter discovers a strange silver vial in his pocket during Potions class along with a working quill. He is baffled, to say the least. After all, it is not everyday that mysterious—and possibly, if not probably, dangerous—vials appear, secreted amongst his robes. Surreptitiously he examines the odd container instead of taking notes like the rest of the class. 

There is only so much one can say about this particular vial. It is about six inches long, rounded in the manner of a test tube, silvery in color, and has a glass stopper sealed with red wax.

Curiosity being one of Harry's greatest weaknesses, he picks away at the hardened wax with one bitten fingernail. Every once in awhile he glances up to make sure no one is watching him. Occasionally, only when Professor Snape looks at him, he hastily scribbles down a couple lines from the blackboard. He is confident in Hermione's note taking ability and her grudging willingness to share those selfsame notes. Right now, however, his sole focus is on the puzzling vial—oh, and how it got there, mustn't forget that. 

Bit by bit the wax comes off. It lodges under his finger nail and falls silently onto his lap. With a scrape from his thumbnail, which is longer and stronger than the rest, a whole section comes off. He can almost remove the stopper. A little more…There!

Shielding the silver vial in his hands, he casually places them on the desktop and darts a quick glance around with his eyes. Everyone is still intent on writing down the obscenely long section of notes. The professor is busy with his malicious and quite unfair grading of the writing assignment due at the beginning of class. The coast is clear, as it were. 

With as much casualness as his excited curiosity will allow, he carefully pulls the glass stopper out. It clinks softly against the inside of the container. Fortunately, nobody seems to notice. A thick, golden liquid the same consistency of honey clings to the glass rod in a heavy strand. The alluring fragrance of cinnamon, vanilla and roses rises from the slick substance. 

Suddenly, he is hungry. His stomach gurgles quietly to confirm the sudden realization. Curious, very curious. 

Though some, particularly a certain professor and blonde student, would deny it, Harry is not an idiot. No matter how tempting the strange liquid is, he is not going to put it through a taste test. If there is one thing he has learned, it is to never put unknown things in his mouth, especially when dealing with the Wizarding world. 

Perhaps he should just show it to Hermione. No doubt she will guess the contents of the mysterious vial—or MV as he has come to call it in his mind—in under five minutes. Gingerly he pushes the stopper back in. He fails to notice the slight overflow this action causes. However, he does notice the oddest tingling sensation in his finger and thumb that hold the vial near the opening. 

Now he's done it. No doubt the liquid—well, it's rather more like oil, isn't it?—is some sort of solvent, and it is now eating away at his flesh. The idea so alarms him that he drops the silver vial, or rather flings it away in panic. 

He may not be an idiot, but he surely is a bit of a fool. 

*          *          *

_"For further information on Aeval's Kiss, please contact your local branch of the Inter-Dimensional Bureau of Laws and Regulations._

_"See Also: Bronwyn's Tears, Melgorn Mixer, Ayurisdal Esk, Syphorn's Breath, Vispideddes…"_


End file.
